


Tofu and Turnips

by keslei



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Humor, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keslei/pseuds/keslei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully invites Mulder over for dinner. Written for a challenge for a writing group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tofu and Turnips

It was Saturday night, and Mulder was sprawled on his couch, engaged in a fierce internal debate - Chinese takeout, or delivery pizza? Chopsticks versus finger food, General Tso's chicken versus extra sausage and bacon, fortune cookies versus... hmm... He was still trying to figure out the pizza equivalent of fortune cookies when his phone rang.

He flailed one arm toward his desk, but the phone was just out of range of his fingertips, and he only managed to send a pile of books, papers, and other miscellaneous items flying. A pile that, until a second ago, had actually been organized, at least by his standards.

"Shit," he muttered, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward to grab the phone out from under a few old newspaper clippings. ("Bigfoot sighted?" asked one headline, while another read, "NIH refuses to comment on disappearance of top researcher.")

Yanking the phone cord to untangle it, Mulder put the phone to his ear.

"What?" he spat out.

There was a momentary silence from the other end of the line, and then Scully's voice. "What on earth has got you in such a mood?"

He toed the scattering of papers, books, and floppy disks that now decorated his floor, noting an ugly chartreuse flyer recruiting student volunteers for a psych experiment, and a bad photocopy of a blurry Polaroid featuring a humanoid figure. "Nothing. Sorry. What's up?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to come over for dinner. My mother stopped by this afternoon and left me a whole lasagna that I'll never be able to eat alone."

That sounded like a logical reason to him (can't you freeze lasagna, his brain wondered, but he told it to shut up), and half an hour later, Mulder knocked on Scully's door.

When she opened the door, he had only a second to catch a glimpse of her in an apron, of all things, before she was off to the kitchen, leaving him standing there. "Get the door, would you? I need to check on the pie."

He closed the door, took off his coat, and then stood there awkwardly for a moment more, staring around the room. They didn't really do dinner, at least not when it didn't involve takeout, case notes, and vending machine soda. Was he supposed to help her set the table or something? This was more stressful than facing down mutants and sewer monsters...

Scully's voice jolted him out of his head. "Okay, the pie will be done in twenty minutes, and everything's on the table. Ready to eat?"

Now that he thought about it, he was starving, and the food smelled... well, he was starving. "Lead on, O intrepid chef-lady."

That earned him a look, but it was the one she used when she was equal parts exasperated and amused, so that was okay.

There was a lot of food on the table - lasagna, a salad that looked to be a melange of all his least favorite vegetables, and enough bread to stave off an army of hungry French peasants. No wonder Scully had asked for his help in eating it all.

Scully must have guessed at what he was thinking. "I think my mother sometimes forgets I don't eat like the boys do. Or that I don't have a family to feed." A brief shadow flitted across her face at that, but it was gone before he could think of an appropriate response.

"Anyway," she said as she slid a giant helping of lasagna onto his plate, "at least she remembers what I like to eat."

There was something about that statement that triggered a subconscious sense of foreboding in the back of Mulder's mind, but he was busy refusing Scully's offer of salad so he ignored it. Two bites into the lasagna, he was wishing he hadn't. "Scully, is this... tofu?!? What the hell is tofu doing in this lasagna?" He almost spat it right back out onto his plate, but the glare Scully shot him said she knew what he was thinking, and he'd better not, if he valued his life.

"Yes, Mulder, it's tofu. And broccoli. It's my mother's famous veggie lasagna recipe. Should I tell her you don't like it?" Scully's face dared him to give the wrong answer.

Mulder swallowed carefully. He was still trying very hard to make sure Scully's mother liked him, since she had plenty of good reasons not to. And he wasn't about to sacrifice that over lasagna, even if it was disgusting tofu lasagna. "Scully..." he pleaded, not sure how to answer without digging himself deeper into a hole.

"Yes, Mulder?"

Dammit. Fine. He'd stomached worse in his life, he was sure of it. He just couldn't remember when. "Please thank your mother from me for the lovely dinner." He almost managed to get the words out without a grimace.

The rest of the main course was uncomfortably awkward, as Mulder alternated between scowling at Scully and forcing bites of the tofu monstrosity down his throat. Finally, Scully spoke. "There's pie for dessert, Mulder, if that's any consolation."

He grumbled something noncommittal under his breath, but he did have to concede that pie might make it all worth it.

Five minutes later, as she pulled the pie out of the oven and the blissful scent of cinnamon, spices, and buttery crust filled the air, Mulder was certain that apple pie would be the saving grace of the evening. However, he was still pissed at Scully for using her mother to manipulate him into eating that lasagna, so he carefully kept his face blank, and accepted a slice of pie without so much as a thank you. (Mulder, his conscience said, you're being an ass.)

Mulder was sullenly eating his pie, refusing to admit that it was actually delicious, when it dawned on him that these were NOT apples. The texture wasn't quite right, and he suddenly realized that while Scully had used the word "pie" to describe dessert, she had never specifically stated "apple pie."

"What fresh knavery is this?" he demanded, in a particularly querulous tone.

Scully leveled him a stare that would have intimidated a hardened criminal. (He knew this for a fact - he'd seen her use it on serial killers and liver-eating mutants.)

"Mulder, stop being so dramatic and just eat your pie. You liked it fine last week."

"Yes, well, that was before I knew you'd resort to blackmail and trickery to get me to eat my vegetables."

Scully rolled her eyes. Sometimes he could be such a child. "I am not having this argument, Mulder. You're an adult; eat the pie, don't eat the pie, I don't care. But stop acting like zucchini is the end of the world."

He shoved the traitorous pie around on the plate with his fork, and contemplated dumping the whole plate in the trash on his way out the door. Envisioning this was rather satisfying, but the idea remained a velleity, his sense of self-preservation overriding his desire to make a statement.

Ever the pragmatic soul, Scully finished off her own pie and began to clear the table, pausing for a second before reaching for his plate. Mulder's saturnine countenance was practically designed for brooding, and she took a brief moment to appreciate the fact that even when he was sulking, he still somehow managed to be attractive. Then she nudged his shoulder. "Are you done, or should I leave you to scowl at your dessert for the rest of the evening?"

Mulder knew he'd pretty much ruined dinner with his griping, but some part of his subconscious must not have wanted to write the evening off as a total loss, because he managed to muster up something that was halfway to an apology. "It was good pie, Scully. Is good pie. But I think I'm full."

Come on, Mulder, he chided himself, you can do better than that.

"Sorry about..." he gestured vaguely, "you know..." Being a jerk, his brain supplied, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say it out loud.

Scully rolled her eyes again at his rather poor attempt at contrition, but the small upward twitch of her lips let him know that he was forgiven. Picking up his plate, she moved toward the sink, tossing a parting statement over her shoulder.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"Just be glad it wasn't turnips."

He gave a wry snicker, and unfolded himself from his chair to help her in the kitchen. Maybe the remainder of the evening was salvageable after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a challenge for a writing group. The challenge was to include the following words in a story: melange, knavery, velleity, intrepid, querulous, chartreuse, turnip, foreboding, saturnine, and pragmatic. Why my brain chose to make it a story about Mulder and Scully is beyond me - I've never written them before, but they wouldn't let me sleep last night and this was the result.
> 
> Unfortunately, I do not possess the requisite skills to incorporate arcane vocabulary into a serious story. Hence the absurdity you just read. I apologize profusely.


End file.
